


котенок

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: Birthday, F/M, Fluff, Pet Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 12:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20693768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: Claire gets a surprise on her birthday.





	котенок

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to the person on tumblr who told me minyet was russian for blowjob which sparked the idea that brad lowkey spoke russian

It’s her thirty-third birthday and her apartment is currently full of the people she loves most, drinking beer and wine and eating some of the best pizza in New York. She’d asked them all to bake their favorite dessert and bring it along, forget the gifts. They’d done just that—the towers of cake and candies and cookies and whipped ice cream in her kitchen evidence of that. But there was still a hefty pile of gifts in the corner, all meticulously wrapped and labeled with her name. 

Everyone was there, smiling at her and wishing her happy birthday. Her apartment was full of laughter and love and music and the smells of good food. She was pretty happy with the day, overall. 

It could only have been made better if a certain 6’4”, blue-eyed, hyperactive and unfocused chef was also here. But he was in Portland, an _It’s Alive: Going Places_ shoot running long. She thought about the text message she’d received from Brad that morning, her favorite message—except the ones from her family, that is—she’d received all day.

_Happy birthday, Claire! Me and this guy are thinking about you and wishing we could be there!_

Along with the string of nonsensical emojis (cake and balloons she understood, but the goat?), he’d sent a selfie of himself and Hunzi with a beautiful sunset in the background, both of them grinning broadly and goofily at the camera. She had stared at the photo and the message for a few minutes that morning, her free hand curled into her bedsheets to stop herself from doing something sappy like trace the outline of Brad’s face on her phone. 

As much as she loved her friends and the presents she’d received, in some ways, that message had meant the most. 

But the party was now over, her apartment quiet and empty again, and she was alone to pick up the abandoned streamers and beer cans and red-stained wine glasses. Bruce Springsteen played softly in the background to keep her company as she worked to put her party-strewn apartment back together. 

Maybe she’d down the last few dregs of wine in the half dozen or so bottles and work up the courage to press Brad’s contact in her phone and let him tell her all about Portland and his adventures until she fell asleep to the sound of his voice and the fantasy that he was right there with her. 

A knock on the door startled her out of her cleaning fugue state. She shook her head and headed for the front door, probably Molly coming back to pick up her jacket that she’d left draped over her couch. No matter what, Molly _always_ left something at her apartment. 

She opened the door, a teasing jab on the tip of her tongue, when the sight before her stopped her in her tracks.

Standing in her doorway, his carry-on bag still slung over his shoulder and a broad, eye-crinkling grin on his face, was Brad.

“What you didn’t think I’d miss your birthday did you, котенок?”

She let out a pleased _yip_ of surprise and stepped forward and threw her arms around his neck. “Oh my god, Brad, when did you—how did you—“ She couldn’t get her normally ordered thoughts together, the sight of him jarring her. And then her ears and her brain came back online and she pulled away from his embrace and looked up at him incredulously. “Since when did you speak Russian?”

“Uh, since _always_, Claire.”

She ushered him in and took his luggage from him, dropping it by the front door under her coat rack. It looked nice, his stuff mingled with hers. It looked right. 

Claire turned her attention back to Brad, grinning and crossing her arms over chest. “I can’t believe you’re here. I thought you were in Portland? How—“

“Well, Hunzi and I wrapped a little earlier than we thought and we took a chance at the airport that there would be an earlier flight and badda bing, badda boom! There was a flight.”

“More like you flirted your way on board.”

“Claire, does it really _matter_ how Hunzi and I got home?”

She hummed and rolled her eyes, throwing a trash bag at his chest. “Well, now that you’re here, you can help me clean up and if you’re good, I’ll cut you a slice of cake.”

“As you wish, Claire Bear.”

Claire wrinkled her nose at the nickname. “No, no way. I draw the line at that, Brad. Half-Sour is one thing. I’ll even take whatever it was you called me a second ago, but no way to Claire Bear.”

Brad laughed and held up his hands and the trash bag in supplication. “Okay, okay, котенок.”

She raised an eyebrow at the name. “So, you wanna tell me how the hell you suddenly know Russian?”

He grins toothily at her, eyes sparkling with mischief the way they always do when he’s teasing her.“Flight got delayed out of Portland and there was this guy waiting at the gate, Dmitri, I think his name was. Anyway! We got to talkin’—“

“Of course you did,” she interrupts with a fond roll of her eyes. 

“We got to talkin’,” he reiterates, ignoring her. “And well, I’m a quick learner, Claire. Picked up the ole mother Russia tongue like that.” He snaps his fingers to emphasize his point and she snorts.

If it had been her, she would have found the nearest Starbucks, stuck her headphones in her ears and buried her nose in a book. But Brad was always bouncing around, striking up conversations with strangers and befriending people across the globe. That was just the kind of guy Brad was. 

He’s following her around the apartment now, helping her pick up the last of the crushed beer cans and abandoned wine glasses from her birthday party. 

She likes the way he takes up space in her tiny home, fills every empty inch of it with his stories and his laughter and his energy. Not normally one for romantic notions, she can’t help but let the thought cross her mind: he makes it feel like home. 

“So,” she says, clearing her throat and mind. “What’s it mean?”

Uncharacteristic silence is her only response and she looks up to see him staring at her with wide eyes, clutching the trash bag full of the evidence of the party he missed. 

“Y’know, ole Dmitri didn’t say.”

“Brad, you’re a terrible liar.” 

It’s the way he lets his eyes dart around the room and the way he hesitates before speaking, like he considered the truth and a lie and couldn’t quite decide what he was going to do until the words were out of his mouth. He scuffs his shoe against the carpet and distracts himself by crumpling napkins and streamers and stuffing them into the trash bag in his hands. 

(Hands she has gotten very good at only sometimes noticing. Okay, not _very good. _She slips up, occasionally. But it’s not her fault. He’s just always so _there_ and sticking his hands in her work space and picking up her delicate creations in his giant hands. Hands that she has in no way whatsoever spent any time fantasizing about.)

He sighs. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But you can’t get mad or weird about it, okay, Claire?”

Curiosity piqued she nods, adding slowly, “Okay....”

“It means kitten. ‘Cause you’re, y’know.” He gestures at all of her in a haphazard way that she supposes is meant to encompass all over her and whatever it is he means.

He’s red faced and blushing in the way that she’s only seen a few times before. Claire notices in a kind of peripheral way because all she can think about is the fact that he thinks she’s a _kitten_ and he has a nickname for her and he sounds more than a little sexy when he says it, voice guttural and deep and husky and directed at her. 

She wants to hear it again.

“Say it again,” she commands him, straightening her back and beaming at him in a way that reminds him of a tube of proudly offered cherry chapstick. 

“мой котенок.” 

It sends shivers across her skin and she perks up at the change. “Wait, that was different. What did you say?”

Brad rubs a hand over his face, like he can’t believe he’s this stupid for wanting a little more, for pushing a little more. He clears his throat and meets her eyes.

“My kitten,” he says, voice rough. “It means my kitten.”

It should feel strange and awkward, hearing him be so possessive when they’re by all accounts just friends and coworkers. But the butterflies in her stomach and the tension she feels at being alone in her home with him make her feel like the name is right. 

She is his. Has been for a while now. Maybe it’s time she clued him in. It’s her birthday after all. Aren’t you supposed to get what you want? Realize you’re another year older and you can’t let any more time pass you by?

“Oh _yours_, huh?” Her tone is light and teasing and she steps forward, takes the bag from his hands and drops it to the floor.

He looks at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. Her bare feet bump into his shoes and she looks up at him from beneath lowered lashes, hair falling in her face. 

It feels pointless to deny anything now. He raises a shaking hand to brush his fingers along her cheek, pushes her hair back behind her ear. “Well, ‘s’not like I hop on red eyes across the country to be back in town for Morocco’s birthday.”

“But you did for me.”

It comes out like a whisper, like a revelation and a realization. It gives her the strength to play with the hem of his flannel shirt, fingertips flirting with his hips and the fabric of his boxer shorts peeking out from atop his waistband. 

He cups her cheek into his palm and she can’t help it, she sighs and leans her head further into his hand. He’s looking at her like it’s _his_ birthday and she’s giving him exactly what he’s always wanted, eyes impossibly blue and sparkling. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Saffitz, but I’m a little bit in love with you.” He grins at her and shrugs helplessly, as if saying _can you blame me?_ “Figured the least I could do was get here for your big day.”

She bites her lip hard to stop herself from grinning too broadly, but she fails spectacularly. She doesn’t think it’s possible to _not_ smile when he’s with her when they’re at work or hanging out after hours. But after he tells her he’s in love with her? She’s a goner. 

Warmth spreads from the center of her chest down to her bare toes. He _loves_ her. She pushes herself up onto her toes and wraps her arms around his neck to tug him down, fingers curling into his riotous hair. 

“Say it again,” she whispers into space just a few inches between their mouths, their breaths intermingling. 

His eyes go dark with understanding and he tightens his hands on her hips where they’ve settled, tug her a few inches closer so her hips are flush with his. It feels like they’re doing this all backwards, pet names and confessions and the press of their bodies before their lips even touch. 

“мой котенок.”

He barely has the last syllable out before her mouth covers his, sucking his bottom lip between her own and licking into his mouth the way she’s wanted to since he showed up on her doorstep, fresh from the airport and the scent of Portland still clinging to him. The way she’s wanted to since she walked into the Bon Appétit Test Kitchen the first day and he’d shaken her hand, completely engulfing her hand in his, and grinned at her in welcome. 

_Best birthday ever_, is the last coherent thought she has before she is consumed by him: his mouth and fingers and the rasp of his beard against her skin and the heavy, hot weight of him pressed against every inch of her as the clean-up from the party is left behind and they stumble back to her bedroom. 


End file.
